Isaera

When you round back to try to catch the feuding brothers, they are not where they were; but a modicum of attention permits you to track the sounds of their escalating argument out into the street again as they storm back toward their tent.

"I can't believe you, Matthean! You stand by this, this, arson of our heritage because of the bigoted and blind actions of a handful of humans. You're ready to see our people formally side with the Horde over this?" The young elven warrior fumes as he stalks through the more meandering crowd; most aimless and dazed by the events of the evening and not so desperate to get back to quarters. His magical brother has to hustle to keep up with his stride, both elves caking their boots in the mush of red mud made more slick still by the spritz of unseasonable rain that begins to fall.

"I don't say that - I said don't be hasty. I want what is best for our people's future, not their past! We have no permanent allies; that's a lesson we couldn't afford to learn the first time!"

The other members of their party - the human huntress Atia, the forsaken Pernard and the orc Lorik, keep pace with the pair and say little. Their thoughts on the events are no less real, but they seem to be used to this dynamic and primarily interested in getting it out of the street as a public spectacle. Atia spares you a glance as they all follow the brothers into the Arathi Entente chapter's tent, tacitly permitting you to be there, given the elvish nature of all the emotion flowing around.

"Don't you get it? What happens if another war breaks out? We'll be marching out to kill the same people our father died trying to save!"

"Our father is dead because of the same bullheaded allegiance to sentiment that you-"

That snaps something in the warrior brother, and with a silk smooth movement of grace and power he rounds and drives his fist square into his brother's face. Matthean's nose crumbles under the impact, blood streaming immediately as he totters over backwards on to the ground in a daze born as much of the fratricidal direction of the blow as the impact itself. Zalael looks ready to follow it up with a kick or two before Lorik's big green hands snatch him by the shoulders and restrain him, and Atia kneels by Matthean's side as he recovers. The mage stays down for the moment, spitting blood to one side that creates a vivid crimson spatter on the blankets laid down on the tent floor.

"Wake up to yourself, Zal! Nothing is fine, and no amount of dumb effort will make it okay. No one's getting everything they want - we compromise, we move forward, we survive. I don't even want to go back for Silvermoon - you want that. I just want allies we can rely upon right now while we build a new home. You want to stay loyal to the humans, like father might have wanted? The humans who fought for our homeland? Good! You've been working with one for months!"

When Matthean gestures, it's not to the huntress Atia, but to the forsaken warrior, Pernard, sitting on a stool at one side of the tent looking small and uncomfortable with the back and forth. His jawlessness makes him unable to directly respond, but he does look up with eye sockets filled with a soft yellow glow, back and forth between the brothers, like he resents being dragged into this. But Matthean isn't finished.

"Lordaeron and Silvermoon both fell, and the only reason there's any resistance left in Quel'Thalas at all is because Pernard's people never stopped fighting the Scourge even after they gave their lives! Lady Windrunner gave them the means to fight back. Not Varian Wrynn, or the dwarf kings, or anyone else. The humans who were our allies in the second war are still fighting. Do you get it?"

Zalael may not take this point completely, but what he does realize is that he has raved all the way from the gates of Orgrimmar to this tent about the indignity of allying with the Horde, while his orcish and forsaken brothers in arms patiently let him scowl. Embarrassment for that, and for punching his brother, and then for doing all this infront of you, reddens his cheeks, and he retreats at the summit of his frustration and shame around you, back out the tent flap, to stand in the muddy street and the drizzling rain.

In the Ratchet Chapter's Tent

Emilia is finished packing quite quickly, and spends a little while lingering listening to the others talk about their disappointments for the evening. For a party they'd travelled so far for, that seemed so honouring and promising, everyone came away feeling worse for it.

"Did... you all see that comet? It was big, wasn't it? I mean... close. Probably going to land somewhere inland and draw all kinds of-"

She cuts off her sentence when a goblin hiding under an umbrella raps on the tent flap, and she takes a parcel wrapped in waxed cloth from him. She tips the goblin, and he goes on his way; and she pulls from within the cloth a folded scrap of paper, and... a gold envelope, its top clearly already opened. She gives the letter a glance, then hands both to Jakk'ari.

Spoiler: The contents.
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Quote Originally Posted by The Letter
Jakkari

Grabbed this and laughed when I read it. I heard the vote counters arguing about whether you got one vote per head or per body; now it makes sense. I guess there are more than a few souls attending who think Old Khadgar could use a punch in the face.

No hard feelings brother.

- Bembowole
Quote Originally Posted by Inside the Envelope
An officious looking card details what the master of ceremonies might have read at the podium if the festivities hadn't ended prematurely.

King of the 1st Annual Armistice Ball by Plurality Vote: Zalael Emberpride
Queen of the 1st Annual Armistice Ball by Plurality Vote: Mor'Lag

(scribbled hastily in another hand) Do not call for the king and queen's dance. I know it's on the run sheet but it'll look ridiculous. Chen is making a batch of 'royal shots' to toast with instead, try to stall. - Ogbin.